Rituals of Submission | Part 2 of 2
by Elouise
I feel awkward making observations about being beaten. I don’t remember anyone talking with me about them, commiserating with me, comforting me or asking how I felt. After each beating I simply walked out of the room and right back into life.
It was almost as though it never happened. There were tell-tale signs: my splotchy red face, bloodshot eyes, subdued sniffling, and the burning welts on my backside that wouldn’t let me forget. Especially when I sat down. But I don’t remember anyone breaking the code of silence.
Nonetheless, I have several observations, an additional piece of the puzzle, and what being groomed to be a victim looked like on me.
Observations
This punishment is happening in our home, yet it’s structured as a mini-church event, presided over by my father, the pastor. I recognize key elements.
~ Acknowledgment of God’s presence
~ A reminder of why we’re here today
~ A brief ‘talk’ about what has taken place and how deeply it grieves God and my parents
~ A non-negotiable altar call (to me)
~ Confession of sin (mine)
~ The administration, in God’s name, of appropriate punishment (to me)
~ Begging God’s forgiveness (of me)
~ Appropriate signs of repentance and sorrow (from me)
~ Assurance that I am still a member of my family, forgiven for my sin of disobedience
~ A final, non-negotiable kiss of ‘peace’
Yet this isn’t church at all. Sadly, I don’t find
~ A community of friends, neighbors, strangers or most family members
~ Music, singing, dancing, laughter or clapping of hands
~ Smiles, greetings of peace, gratitude or hospitality
~ Communal confession of sin and assurance of pardon
~ Confession of shared faith and requests for prayers of support
~ Difficult conversation about things that matter
~ Safety, peace, hope, healing, comfort, freedom and empowering challenge
~ Grace, joy, thanksgiving, wonder, a blessing and a benediction
My father’s heavy reliance on selected church language and practices, and his identity as a clergyman give me pause. His goal was to silence my voice and break my will. I wonder whether cloaking it all in religious God-talk was his way of shifting responsibility to God. He was simply following orders from God. Does that suggest God made him do it? My father would never agree with this suggestion, yet I wonder about it.
I don’t, however, wonder about this: From my father’s perspective I alone was responsible for whether I got punished, and for how severe the punishment would be. From time to time he reminded me that if I showed genuine signs of contrite sorrow and repentance early, I wouldn’t be punished so severely. According to him, I alone had the power to control the way he punished me. In fact, if I would simply obey him I wouldn’t get punished at all!
It sounds as though I made him do it. But I know this isn’t true. On rare occasions–never anticipated by me ahead of time–he suddenly announced that he had decided not to beat me this time. My instantaneous relief, happiness and gratitude knew no bounds. I felt as though my life had just been spared. I also felt strangely bonded to my father by something like love.
Back then I didn’t understand the power of these capricious yet highly strategic exceptions to the ritual. I did, however, know that I could never count on them. Or even hope for one. They in no way diminished my anticipation of the worst.
Another piece of the puzzle
At least twice when I was in my 50s my parents gave me another piece of this sad picture. It seems my father had critical help from my mother.
I wasn’t even 2 years old yet. My father had just returned home. I came running and smiling to greet him with a hug and kiss. He was surprised. This wasn’t the angry, rebellious, argumentative little girl he left at home that morning following his failed attempt to spank the anger out of me.
He asked my mother what had happened. She explained: You didn’t do it hard enough or use the right instrument. After you left this morning she was as difficult with me as she was with you. Definitely not tamed or compliant.
So she spanked me yet again. When her first effort didn’t produce the desired result, she retrieved her hairbrush from the bedroom and used the back side of the hairbrush to spank me even harder and longer on my bare little bottom. According to her, it worked like a charm. I was docile, obedient and cheerful for the rest of the day.
The last time my mother told me this story she added a crucial piece of information. With tears in her eyes, she said that right after she finished this second spanking I ran into her arms for comfort, crying and saying “I love you.” According to her, this was the very first time I’d ever behaved like that with her.
I could hardly believe my ears. It seems my father thinks he is beating anger out of me; my mother seems to think she has beaten love into me.
I had no safe pastor or children’s/youth pastor to talk with about what was happening at home. Nor did it occur to me that I could or should have that option. After all, my father was also my pastor. I really didn’t need anyone else, did I?
What it looks like when I say…
I was groomed to be a victim. Pimps love to find young girls who are easy to recruit. Girls like me. By the time I’m 10 years old I’m ready.
~ I’m starving for love and attention
~ I’ve been abused in my family
~ I’m lonely and feel left out when I’m with friends my age
~ I don’t have healthy boundaries
~ I know how to be docile, submissive and pleasant no matter how I feel
~ I feel responsible for taking care of others, especially my father
~ I know how to numb out when things get ugly
~ I believe there’s something wrong with me
~ I’m looking for a family that will appreciate me
~ I’m ready for something better–someone who really loves me, just the way I am
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 27 January 2014
For Part 1 of this post, click here.
Telling the Truth 
Elouise, I cannot express how moving your posts are to me. I am so sorry the child you were had to endure these things. I only had hints of similar experiences as a child: shaming and expectations of perfection among them. Thank you for sharing and for your amazing gifts.
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Natalie, Thanks for joining the conversation. I often wonder how many children endure things like this and worse every day. When I was growing up I had no clue how powerless I was. I thought I could somehow protect myself, especially my internal sense of self. Not a chance.
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We “old social workers” call it blaming the victim. Yours is a very clear case indeed.
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Thanks, Nancy. One of the great gifts of looking back is that my vision is a bit clearer–not just about myself, but about the inner dynamic of things that happened then and still happen today. Blaming the victim is one such travesty.
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Now I know why you are such a champion for women who are caught up
in human trafficking. You are a strong woman!
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Thanks, Priscilla! I’m so glad to see you in the conversation.
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Thank you for putting words to these experiences that too often remain shrouded in silence Elouise.
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You’re welcome, Annika.
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Elouise, my soul is genuflecting before the wonder of God’s healing Love in your life unfolding now…all these years later, He is still redeeming you…and, I have a feeling, many others at the same time through this blog. He has truly never left us alone…evidenced in how He has brought these memories back to you now as a mature woman who can process the truth you couldn’t as a little girl. Oh, the thought of it leads me to worship.
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Nancy, Thanks for joining the conversation. These memories have festered in me for decades. I’m so grateful for this opportunity to expose them to the light. I believe God, the Weaver of Life, doesn’t waste anything I’m willing to stop hoarding.
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Elouise, I too am now beginning to understand my life. It seems as if we might have grown up in the same household except with the Mom and Dad roles reversed and much, much more psychological abuse. I am trying to learn not to be a victim, or always wrong no matter what I do. It took a major PTSD episode to begin to expose all the things that I have been hiding. Fortunately my husband is adjusting to the real me gradually. I pray much more now. I will include you in my prayers. Forgiveness works.
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Lee, Thanks so much commenting on your journey, and for including me in your prayers. I’m glad you’ve joined the conversation.
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I have read part one and part two of this post. I think my father and your father must have grown up together. My father, a pastor, felt it was his duty to break my will. He told me that he often would pin me down in my crib and hold my arms and legs until I stopped crying. I remember once throwing up in the crib (I was about 3) and my father letting me know how awful that was. “I could have gotten out if I had tried and thrown up in the bathroom.” We were at my grandparents’ house and I was scared to go anywhere in the dark. “I had caused my mother an awful lot of extra work that if I had been considerate I would not have caused.” I don’t remember getting beaten. But my spirit was beaten by words. I was no good. Never made the right decisions. And I was never told that they loved me. I was starved for love. But I learned not to talk, not to voice an opinion, and was punished if I showed any anger or laughter or emotion of any kind. I had no idea that this was abuse. This was how to survive in my family. I saw my older sister treated terribly by my father. I saw what she did that caused him to be so angry with her and tried to remember never to do those things. My father used to tell me I was adopted. My two sisters he knew were his children, but he had not been there when I was born so he could not be sure that I belonged in the family. To add to this, I was told that my aunt, who had no children, was paying them to keep me so that she could claim me on her income tax as a deduction. This information only compounded the message that I was not wanted, must be good all the time (good by their definitions) or I might be asked to leave the family, and could never amount to anything because I was not very smart. When I wanted to go to nursing school, I was told I could go to Bible school because I was not smart enough to be a nurse. I have battled being dumb for years. I arrived at the Bible college so unsure of myself and not able to voice how I felt because I knew it would get back to my parents as the dean of women had been my mom’s suite-mate when they were on the old property down-town. She let me know that she would let them know if I got out of line. My abuse was some physical, a lot of verbal, a breaking of my will, and sexual. Dad told me that he loved me more than my mother. He made me lock my door on the inside with a bolt so that I would be safe. But when I had to change rooms to the room in the attic, he would come up and kiss me and feel me. Later at another place we lived, he gave me a pistoI to use if he came in the room. I got the message early on that if he made advances toward me, it was my fault and not his because he had needs. I had mixed emotions. I so wanted someone to love me, but was afraid of him at the same time because I knew his love was not the kind I was looking for. I was happy to be at the Bible college because I felt safe from my dad. But I longed to be happy and have a boy-friend and not be so afraid. Wow. I have never written all this down before that I remember, any way. I still battle a lot of these things. But now I know the God my parents did not seem to know. The one who loves me and has a wonderful plan for my life. May we each walk forward in healing. God is the great healer, even when I don’t feel it.
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Dear Anne,
My heart aches for you. Your courage is visible in your words. Your intelligence and gifts shine through in your graceful language of truth. Thank you for this gift. There was no way for us to understand that what happened to us was child abuse. You were small; he was big. You had no power; he had all the power. What a tragedy for you and your entire family. My heart aches.
Elouise
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